In his Camelot
days of 1985-87, Rajiv Gandhi had Satyen (Sam) Pitroda as a key advisor.
As a poorly paid university professor, I had to often supplement my
pathetic teaching salary with fees from anchoring TV programmes, and
still remember an interview with the silver maned Sam. We had got on to
discussing absurdities in babudom, and Sam came out with a brilliant
example. Do you remember the long postal money order forms of the time?
It was about half the width of an A4 sized paper and more or less the
same length. This is what Sam had to say: “All you need in a money order
form is four areas — from whom, to whom, how much and a little space for
a two or three line message. Why can’t it be as small as a postcard.
Think of the number of trees we would save?”

It wasn’t the size of a postcard because nobody had
thought of it. And even if someone did, there was the “chalta hai to
chalne do” inertia that so characterises us. Fifteen years of reform
hasn’t done much to change this attitude. Micro-level procedural
absurdities abound throughout India. Here are three for your
consumption.

A friend of mine who has recently taken up a career as an
independent consultant was given a serious run-around in getting a
service tax registration. The authorities wanted proof of residence. He
submitted the most recent bank statements as well as copies of his
telephone bills — both of which carried his address. These were
summarily rejected. Guess why? Because the bank statements were from a
private, non-nationalised bank, and because his was an Airtel phone
connection. According to the service tax babu, statements from private
sector banks and telecom providers do not constitute valid proof of
address. Those from state-owned banks, MTNL and BSNL do.

Eventually, my friend had to get a certified copy of his
home rental agreement in stamped paper before the service tax office
accepted it as proof of residence. Had he been living in his father’s
house, he would have been in serious trouble, for couldn’t have given a
rental agreement.

Example number two. Another friend can’t renew his
Kolkata driving license to a Delhi-based one. He lives in a house in
Delhi that is owned by his dad; hence, no proof of residence. He banks
with ICICI Bank and Standard Chartered; so his bank statements won’t do.
His telephone is an Airtel connection; so that’s out. He no longer has a
ration card; there goes his second last life line. And the poor guy’s
permanent address in the passport is that of his ancestral home in
Kolkata. As far as the Motor Vehicles chaps are concerned, he does not
exist. In the meanwhile, he drives with an expired license and the fond
hope that he will somehow be able to finesse things at the Motor
Vehicles office before some Delhi’s finest catch him for jumping a
traffic light.

Example number three. Also of the Motor Vehicles
department. A non-resident Indian friend from England has relocated to
Delhi. He bought a Zen from another friend, and tried to get it
registered in his name. All hell broke loose. His passport is Canadian
with an address in Montreal. The only property that he owns is a flat in
London. He has neither a ration card nor a voter identity card. He
banks with Standard Chartered; his phone is an Airtel; and he is a
paying guest bereft of a home lease agreement. He doesn’t exist; hence,
no registration. He still drives the Zen; but, God forbid, if an
accident were to happen, the friend who sold him the car will be up to
her neck in trouble.

The older I get, the more I focus on the micro: laws,
rules, regulations, approval processes, and the nitty-gritty of doing
business. India’s macroeconomics is par for the course. It’s the myriad
dysfunctional micros that drag us back. Like the absurdities that you’ve
just read. And the many others that you, dear reader, could offer as
examples. We are like that only…